


the intrepid traveller, boldly brave

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Gendry/Walda is one brief scene before he meets Arya), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Gen, House Stark, Pre-Canon, Robb Stark is a Gift, Robb Stark teaches guerilla warfare through tag rugby fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-03 00:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13329648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: One: Gendry is sent to smith at Winterfell, and is utterly charmed by the North and its nonsense.Two: Gendry and Arya make a stop at the Twins on their way to King's Landing, and encounter a surprise.





	1. Chapter 1

There’s many a first for Gendry, on the road North. He wakes up in inns, taverns and shepherd’s huts alike, often forgetting where he is, shocked to find himself in wide, open country that smells of sweet, clean air. For a Flea Bottom street rat such as himself, he never thought he’d leave the walls of King’s Landing. Never mind travel almost the length of Westeros to his new home. Never gave it much thought, neither. Smallfolk didn’t move ‘round much, 'cept to go looking for work, and there was plenty work to be found right there.

Gendry’s stomach turns to wet rags whenever he thinks on his destination, heavy with fright. What’s he know about the North, and their strange ancient ways? Swearing by the old gods and the new is something he’s said, but has he ever truly meant it? Could he have, when he’s never seen a bloody weirwood in his life? They keep the old ways up there, Yoren warns the lads bound for the Night’s Watch. Never thinks to mention what exactly these old ways are, though, the bastard. Enjoys seeing the lads squirm. Gendry wishes it didn’t have the same effect on him.

He is travelling with them, because Lord Baratheon, the king’s brother no less, bid it so. Ned Stark is in need of an apprentice smith. Why not a single lad in the North, or any other Kingdom a mite closer, isn’t good enough, Gendry doesn’t question. He’s not in the habit of questioning Lords, see, nor the onion knights they send to do their bidding. Mostly just does as he’s told, and keeps to the forge whenever old Mott is wrangling coin out of them. 

Now here he is, on his way to present himself to one, carrying a bound scroll, official like. Gendry keeps it hid, knowing greedy folk will always want to be taking what’s not theirs to take. Not that most of them could read whatever Lord Baratheon has written on it, anyway. Gendry couldn’t, though he traces the name on the outside with interest. 

“Says, ‘Lord Eddard Stark’,” Yoren tells him, when Gendry is too curious not to ponder over it, in a rare moment alone.

Gendry flushes guiltily, despite not doing much out of turn. Simply embarrassed to be caught. He shoves the missive deep into his pack then, and resolves not to stare at it any longer. He’ll never find out what’s inside by staring at the blank parchment outside, besides.

It’s the first missive he’s ever delivered, same as every step he takes is the furthest he’s been from home, once they leave the city gates. He admires foreign rivers and gapes at the first mountains he encounters; huge jagged towers of rock, powerful as they carve up the skyline. The trees and plants change as they cross from the Riverlands into the Vale, picking up prisoners and desperate men as they go. 

The Mountains of the Moon are mesmerising, the Vale a glistening country of rock and shale unlike anything he could ever have imagined. If Gendry had a choice, he would settle here, in some small town. Maybe find a pretty Vale girl, that would be happy to take the only smith for miles for a husband. It’s an idle dream, but a good one. It carries him back into the Riverlands, a soft smile on his lips during quiet moments.

Bandits try to rob them on the road; five miserly men, none of them a match for Yoren and his two Wandering Crow companions. Gendry wallops one with a solid branch when he reaches for his pack. The two wretched survivors join the traipsing procession toward the Wall, the Black Knights opting not to inform any lords of their swift application of justice. 

It’s hardly a banishment to the Wall offense. But holding them up by detouring to the castle of whatever lord’s land they’re on, might be, for Yoren. The man is itching to get North, or so he claims. Gendry wonders if the burden of escorting him has anything to do with it; the Crow hadn’t been pleased with Lord Baratheon’s insistence they take him. If Ned Stark wanted him, he should have sent an envoy of his own, Yoren grumbles. But Lords rarely stick to the rules if they can find a way to flout them. Gendry supposes that even Northmen must not be different in that respect.

They cross the Trident at the Twins, hosted for two nights in the miserable keeps there. The ratty looking Freys are innumerable and barely distinguishable from their pock-marked servants, in their roughly hewn clothes. Gendry hadn’t thought he’d ever compare a lord’s castle to a Flea Bottom tavern, and yet he finds himself doing so. The same stench of sour ale and despair lingers in the air. Lord Walder Frey, a shrivelled old man sunken deep into his wooden throne, merely laughs when his daughters, or granddaughters, accost Gendry. Almost wrenching him apart in their attempts to claw at him, squeezing the muscles of his arms.

He doesn’t intend to fuck the pretty, plump one entirely covered in freckles. But when he stumbles out of the hall in a daze, escaping clawing hands, he seeks refuge in a storeroom beside the kitchens. And there she is, darning socks. She’s not the first to tumble him, but certainly the loudest, big breasts bouncing in his face, as she works herself up and down. The girl has a knee on the barrels either side of him, while he sits on one in the middle, barely holding on. It’s only after, that he realises who she is. Her frilly, pink dress is entirely covered in ruffles, and far too elaborate to be a servant’s garb. With that, Walda Frey becomes the first highborn girl he fucks, surprised by just how pleasant it was, especially when she giggles and kisses him after, plump bosoms jiggling.

When they cross from the Riverlands into the North, there’s nothing to show for it, no stone statue of wolves or sudden arrival of a blizzard. There is no question the land is different; the mud thick with water, queer spindly plants, and squat trees with bare, exposed roots, rising up from it. Gendry has never seen marshlands before, and is warned from straying from the ‘path’ between bogs. He sees no such road, receiving only snorts of laughter when he asks how in the Seven Hells the Crows know where to step. 

As if guided by his words, small, fur-clad men and women melt from amongst the trees, like shadows made flesh. They are unnaturally small, all carrying spears or bows, even the women. They make no sound as they appear, and continue to stare, silent and eerie, until Yoren hails them. Gendry has never heard of a crannogman, but apparently that’s who these small, creepy people are.

“Your first time meeting a Northman, eh?” A raper sneers, spitting in disgust, “Savages, all of them, not least these little frog-eaters.”

Gendry ignores him, fascinated by the petite, quiet people. They leap from stone to tussock, sure footed, following invisible routes, their heads held high in dignity. Gendry wouldn’t be able to name them for smallfolk or the Northern version of knights, or even low, masterly lords. Something about their high cheekbones and small stature is alien to him, and their eyes seem unnaturally large. He ducks head, not keen to get caught staring. They all seem dignified people, refined in the confident way of highborns, no matter the Kingdom.

Eventually, their party comes to rest at the edge of a bog that is more of lake, the crannogmen all facing west, as though waiting for something. It appears from the mist as though summoned by horn; a little island, covered in grass and reeds, lazily floating toward them. The crannogmen lasso it with the deft use of ropes and a fishing net. They drag the rock, which is about the length of a rowboat but rather wider, toward them. Crannogmen confidently pile onto it, a Crow and several recruits joining them. The floating island is released, as Gendry watches, enchanted. It bobs away, quickly lost in the fog. 

Another island appears in due course, smaller than the first, and the process repeats. Gendry joins the third island, utterly charmed as they float through the lake. It is magical. No matter what the Septons sometimes used to preach on the Street of Silk, about the sins of the flesh, and how magic had died from the world along with the dragons. 

The crannogmen use their broad-headed spears as oars, directing the island down what might generously be named a river. It is really just boggy water that moves at a faster pace than the boggy water surrounding it. Still, it’s an experience unlike any other. To sit on solid ground in mossy grass, yet move as though on a boat. Not that Gendry has ever been on any boats, nor learned to swim. But he supposes the sensation must be somewhat similar.

“They’re strange-looking ‘cause they breed with Children of the Forest.” A greybeard whispers, as they sweep across the water. He raises his voice to ask; “Do they live with you still? Any of the pure-blooded old ones?”

A marsh-boy with blonde, curly hair, who cannot be older than Gendry himself, fixes the old man with a look. He deliberates for a moment, before kneeling beside the old man, cupping his mouth to his ear. The greybeard’s wizened face breaks into an almost toothless grin. Clearly very pleased with whatever the boy said. Gendry itches with curisority, wondering if there is any chance it is true. 

The trip lasts for hours; Gendry drifts to sleep before he realises he’s even tired. He wakes to find the stars blazing above him, the gentle lap of water sloshing and soothing, while frogs ribbit and crickets sing. To his astonishment, fat little bugs rise from the green leaf-pads floating in the marsh, their bodies glowing an acidic shade of yellow-green.

“Firebugs,” the young, curly-haired crannogman says, seeing the question in his eyes. “They glow at night, even in the Winter.”

When the crannogmen leave them, keeping the secrets of their parentage to themselves, Gendry is sad to see them go. He appreciated their quietness, their surety. After the last island had alighted, they carry on only a short distance before an ancient ruin with three wonky towers is put to good use. Gendry is asleep before he has to suffer the snoring of his companions.

*

The North is biting cold, even before Gendry gets his first glimpse of snow. After two days of walking in less perilous marshes, the land becomes a grassy, open plain. The wind nips at his cheeks and fingers, as they pass over rolling green hills. It’s not the bleak land he was expecting in the North, though Gendry notices none of the fields they steadily march through have been tilled for farming, like they saw in the Riverlands.

“Don’t they grow things, in the North?” He asks, feeling stupid even as the words leave his mouth, “Vegtables, and the like?”

“Aye, lad,” Yoren sneers, “But not here. See those uneven lumps?”

Gendry nods, because the land here is nothing but lumps, small hillocks pitting and plumping the land as far as the eye can see.

“Those are barrows, boy. Tombs of the First Men. You’re walking through the Land of the Dead, here.”

Gendry blanches at that, appalled at the sheer number. 

“You’ll not see the Great Barrow from here, but it’s more than double the size of these. The Tomb of the First King, a giant.”

Somehow, Gendry believes it. This land is old; the trees appeared to be more ancient than anything that grew in the South. As though they passed though some invisible barrier in the swamp Neck and emerged in an older realm, a land of mysterious power. 

With Winterfell only a few days away, he grows impatient to finally arrive, but also more nervous. They all gained cloaks along the road in the Riverlands, but they aren’t nearly thick enough now that they have left the muggy, close air in the Neck. More are acquired from an inn on the Kingsroad, heavy with ratty fur, but better than going without. Gendry fears he will lose his nose from the continued exposure to cold he couldn’t have imagined existed.

He sees snow then, and all his sour thoughts are forgotten. It is beautiful, perfect frozen crystals that drift down from the sky in tiny flakes, covering the world in a clean, bright white. It forms a soft powder to walk on, like pacing through clouds of flour. In the sunlight, it blazes like fire, silver shimmers dancing at every angle. Nothing could compare to its clarity. Gendry wants to stare at it for days, but he’ll freeze to death if he stops moving, no doubt about it.

The first real Northern castle he sees is named Castle Cerwyn, though Gendry isn’t allowed inside the walls, of course. It lies directly on the Kingsroad, with a small town consisting of wooden shacks and some brick houses, including several inns, which are really taverns, with a few spare rooms. It is only half a day’s ride from here to Winter Town, they are told, which is where the Night’s Watch recruits will be staying whilst Yoren escorts Gendry to Winterfell. The day has grown long though, and Gendry enjoys his bowl of hot vegetable soup, finding it better than any bowl of brown he ever tasted. He does his best not to dwell on what the morrow will bring him. The inn is heaving with people; apparently, every vassal House of the North is travelling to Winterfell, for a huge festival. A troop of mummers is camped directly outside, in brightly coloured tents, lively with music and raucous laughter.

“What’s the occasion?” Gendry asks, wondering if these kinds of celebrations are annual. If the smallfolk are often this excited, the North might not be such a dour, grim place to live after all.

“Lord Stark’s eldest daughter is betrothed,” a tavern wench tells him with a sultry smile. Her cheer dips a little when she adds; “To a filthy Ironman.”

Gendry knows less about the Ironborn than he does about the Northmen, except King Robert went to war with them once. It does seem an odd choice for the Warden of the North’s eldest daughter, but what would he know of such matters? He offers the woman a commiserating smile, the only response he can offer.

Winterfell is the largest structure he has seen since leaving King’s Landing, though entirely different than the Red Keep. Its turrets are old, held together by huge grey stones that have stood since the Age of Heroes. One of the towers is hidden by wooden scaffolding, the sound of busy men working reaching him before they come into view. Rocks are being hoisted by ropes and pulleys, tired dray horses taking the brunt of the work. 

Gendry is led into the central courtyard, filled with all the noise of a working fort; servants carrying firewood, laundry, foodstuffs and furs, whilst others are hanging garlands of pine and conifer to decorate every wall. After introducing themselves to a guard, they are directed to an clean, empty room, with a single table not yet set for dinner. As they pass through two corridors to get there, Gendry can see that maids are busy scrubbing every inch of the castle, spreading billowing, fresh sheets over each table, hanging wreaths of flowers on every door. 

They are left under the watchful eye of a single guard, dressed in boiled leather armour, with a pike in his hand and a scowl on his heavily bearded face. Gendry has yet to see a man in the North in armour, and wonders if he will be of much use here. There are only so many swords and tools a man can make, before the armoury is full. 

Lord Stark reminds him of Lord Baratheon a little; though very different in looks, they share the same humourless countenance. Lord Stark listens to Yoren’s explanation of Gendry’s origins, his training with Master Mott, and how Lord Baratheon thought he exactly the sort of boy Stark was after. Then Gendry hands over the scroll he has kept safe these long miles.

Lord Stark assesses the unbroken Baratheon seal carefully, before breaking it open, and reading the words within. His face gives little away, but something about the darkening of his eyes looks like shock to Gendry. The Lord Paramount of the North peers up at him, running his eyes over Gendry’s face and shoulders, a thorough look. He wants to shrink away, but settles for clasping his hands together nervously behind his back.

At long last, Lord Stark nods at him, deliberately folding the letter small and tucking it into his jerkin. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Gendry. I hope you will be happy here.” Lord Stark smiles at him then, and the knot in his stomach eases then, allowing Gendry to take a deep breath.

He has finally arrived at in his new home, but in many ways, his journey has just begun. It’s funny how you never recognise the significant pieces as they clues they are until something forces you. Years from now, Gendry will remember the letter clenched in Ned Stark’s hands, the look of alarm on his face, and wonder why he wasn’t more curious about what it might have said.

*

Mikken, the Winterfell smith, is a gruff, broad-shouldered man, who likes everything in the forge kept in a particular place. Gendry receives many a cuff to the ear until he works this out. Mikken gets his orders from the master-at-arms Ser Rodrick, most of the time. Swords that need blunting, throwing daggers, arrow-heads and other small weapons that need forging or fixing. Gendry quickly settles into the forge, growing to learn about the household gradually, because Mikken isn’t one to gossip. Here at Winterfell, the servants of the castle eat often with the Lord and Lady, and their many children. Gendry finds himself crammed between Hullen, the master of horse, his stable boys, and several men working on what everyone refers to as the Broken Tower. 

The first Stark he meets aside from his first meeting with Lord Eddard, is the heir, Robb. After less than a sennight in Winterfell, Gendry is stoking the fires of the forge when a man clears his throat. He looks up to see one of the Lord’s sons standing over him, a redhead with bright blue eyes, and a wide grin on his face. Cheerful lordlings tended to be the most cruel in King’s Landing, so Gendry bows respectfully, and keeps his eyes trained somewhere about the young Stark’s chin.

“Gendry, isn’t it?” The boy is probably of an age with him, maybe a little younger.

“Yes m’lord.” He replies promptly.

The friendly clap on his shoulder has him rocking on the balls of his feet, having not anticipated it.

“I’m Robb Stark, eldest son of Eddard Stark.” he declares, which Gendry was not expecting. There are at least four other Stark boys that sit at the top table, one of whom is at somewhat older than this one. Cousins, perhaps. 

“Are you settling in well?” the young lord asks, “Quarters alright?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Gendry has never had a room of his own, with a pallet of fresh straw. He blushes to be enquired after, as though he were a visiting guest.

“Come on, I told Mikken I’m borrowing you for the day.” Lord Robb declares, charging back out of the smithy, Gendry following meekly. The boy leads him across the courtyard, past the training yard where guards are drilling, and out a gate Gendry has not yet passed through. They are quickly swallowed up by woods, unfamiliar trees rustling loudly. A dark pool of water radiates an unnatural heat as they skirt beside it, following the winding path.

“It’s all Sansa’s fault, really.” Lord Robb explains, “She takes all the best players for her side. You’d think I’d be the more popular choice, but no. I get lumped with all the little ones. Jon and Theon can never agree on a single thing, but they’re happy to team up to beat me, so long as its for Sansa.”

Lord Robb rolls his eyes at this injustice, pouting as his explanation comes to an end. Gendry tries not to let on that absolutely nothing has been made clearer to him, not knowing who Sansa, Theon or Jon might be.

“I’m sick of being defeated!” Lord Robb grouses. 

They step into a clearing, where a group of youths are lounging. Gendry recognises most of them from the high table in the hall when the Starks eat with their servants. There are four older lads, three older girls, a younger girl and two little boys. Four of them share Lord Robb’s red hair, though one of the lads has a far lighter shade. The others share the dark hair characteristic of Northmen. All save for one girl, whose hair is a bright, vibrant shade of green. Gendry can’t help but stare at that.

“This is Gendry!” Lord Robb introduces him cheerfully, pointing to the others in quick succession. The two boys leaning on the same tree are Domeric and Ramsay. The boy with his arms hooked over the only redheaded girl’s shoulders is Theon, whilst the beautiful girl in his arms is Sansa. Jon is the one with the smallest boy, Rickon, on his shoulders. Then there are the girls, Wylla and Wynafryd, the former being the one with the creative hair colour. Bran and Arya are the final two children, the last scurrying over to him.

No titles, family names or Houses are given, which is unnerving, but Gendry reasons that treating them all as he does Lord Robb should stand him in good stead.

“The rules are pretty simple,” the youngest girl says, holding out a green ribbon to him. “You tie the coloured sash on, somewhere everyone can see it, and someone on the other team has to steal it. The team that gets all the other ribbons first wins.”

Dutifully, Gendry ties the ribbon on to his belt, at his hip.

“You’re not the only new player,” Domeric assures him, “None of us have ever played this game either.” He indicates himself, Ramsay, and the two eldest girls.

“If you lose your ribbon, you have to sit and watch!” Robb reminds them, as they split into their rival factions.

After Gendry, the rest of Robb’s team consists of Bran, Arya, Wynafryd and Wylla, whereas Sansa has claimed all the older lads and little Rickon for her team. They are wearing silvery grey ribbons. While Sansa counts out loud, the two factions separate into the woods, walking in opposite directions. When her voice stops calling out, they continue sneaking through the trees with exaggerated caution. Gendry expects a game played by highborn children to conducted with some decorum. In reality, all hell breaks loose. 

After a few long moments of blessed peace, crouching behind a shrub, he is tackled to the ground by Theon, and narrowly avoids knocking Wylla over as he rolls free. He scampers off between the tall trees before he can be attacked again. They are all chasing one another, twisting out of holds, laughing and sliding in the mud, clutching onto trees for balance.

Gendry sees Arya, cornered by Jon. He watches in astonishment as the little girl shoves a handful of mud in Jon’s face, before making off with his ribbon. She doesn’t get far, before Ramsay lifts her into the air by the scruff of her dress, and claims her ribbon for himself. Gendry clean forgets to attempt to get ribbons, too busy avoiding being leapt on by raucous children. 

He watches the delicate-looking Sansa jump onto Robb’s back, refusing to let go, even when Rickon has safely untied the ribbon laced on his boot. Gendry lets out an incredulous bark of laughter at their antics, before finally deciding to get stuck in. He rushes forward, and rips off Ramsay’s ribbon. This earns him a kick in the shins, and the loss of his own ribbon when Domeric sneaks up behind him.

In the end, their team wins by default. Bran refuses to come down from the tree he has climbed until they declare it so, flaunting his ribbon in victory. They return to the clearing, which contains a pile of waterskins, and a satchel containing bread, cheese and pieces of cured ham, enough to share with everyone. Too tired to care about etiquette, Gendry gladly accepts the food and drink offered to him. Joining in with the laugher when Sansa clucks over Jon’s muddied face and cleans him with a handkerchief, as though he were her babe. 

It might be most carefree fun Gendry has ever had. He can hardly believe it was the result of playing with highborn children. It is the first time he interacts with the Starks, a morning of silly games. It solidifies his understanding of Winterfell, and his place within it. He might be a street rat, but here he is expected to play with and befriend the people his age, regardless of their status. And as the moons pass, he will not forget that it was Robb Stark who first extended the hand of friendship to him, here in the frozen North.


	2. Chapter 2

"Won't you take her with you?" Walda repeats, her desperation hidden behind a sweet tone, visible only in her aching eyes. "Say that you will, she'd have such a lovely time in the Capital. With the Red Keep and the harbour and all. Wouldn't you like to see it, Jeyne?"

"Yes, Lady Mother," Jeyne Rivers whispers, curtseying again to avoid Gendry's eyes, her cheeks flush with embarrassment, to be trotted out in public like this.

This is what Robb Stark must feel like all the time, Gendry thinks, somewhat hysterically. Trapped between what law and custom dictates, and what he feels to be right and honourable. Or between simpering Walda in her humongous pile of pink ruffles, and Arya fuming at his back, her pregnancy just beginning to show through her riding leathers.

"I would have written to Winterfell, had I known who you were! Father wouldn't have objected me marrying Robert Baratheon's son, oh no." Walda continues blithely, "But I thought you were bound for the Night's Watch, see, so I never thought to see you again."

He can't deny the story is plausible. The small girl has the Baratheon look, no doubt, straight black hair tied back into a single scraggly braid, big blue eyes. The features have been made infamous since Cersei's disgrace. But Gendry isn't the only man in the North with dark hair, and blue eyes are common. She's the right age, probably. But at that stage, a moon or two, or even a full year can be forgotten, and how would he notice? He only has Walda's word for her birth date. But does it really matter? 

Gendry considers it as he drops to a crouch, to better see her, this trembling little girl. She's clearly terrified of him. Of what he might do to her, as he gently lifts her chin with his thumb. Gendry is a Baratheon now, after all, and "fury" is in their words.

But Gendry doesn't feel anger when he looks at Jeyne Rivers, in her second-hand dress, with fraying seams and a torn hem. Only pity, that she will be stuck here at the Twins. No lord that comes a-calling would take her fat mother to wife with a bastard in tow, and what kind of life will she continue to suffer here? Yet another mouth in a crumbling holdfast with too many to feed. And a bastard one at that. Last to be fed, last to wed. 

Gendry well understands what it was like to be nothing and no-one to anyone. He was a motherless urchin in Flea Bottom, until Jon Arryn paid Tobho Mott to take him in as an apprentice, for the luck of who his father was.

It doesn't matter if she's not his. Not really. Doesn't he owe it to Jon Arryn, to raise her up? A way of paying back some of the debt he owed the man, as Gendry never could during Jon's lifetime.

"Aye," says Gendry, tucking a loose strand of hair behind the girl's ear. "I'll take her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a separate note, IRL I just had an article published in a science and tech journal for the first time! Excitiiiiiiing and very different from my usual articles :D


End file.
